Follow You Into The Dark
by wishesatmidnight
Summary: Set after the fall. Sherlock has come back for John after three years; expecting to find his loyal army doctor awaiting him with open arms. But what have these three years done to John Watson? What are the consequences of loneliness? And are love and loss really so inseparable that you cannot have one without the other? Warning: major angst...yeah sorry about that...


_Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth._  
_ For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures,_  
_ and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love._

_-Francis Bacon _

John sat alone in his armchair at 221B Baker street; one hand supporting a bottle of rich red wine, the other a glass half filled. His eyes were glazed over and fixed on the vacant chair opposite him.

The flat held the same ambience of coldness as it did every night that only utter loneliness could bring. That is, it did until that very moment as a tall, dark figure appeared in the doorway; looming shyly, penetrating the hollow atmosphere.

On hearing the heavy, shaking breaths emanating from the man in the doorway, John lifted his head. As soon as their eyes met there was a heated moment in which long repressed emotions coursed between them, but alas it was only moment and therefore it was over before it had really begun. Then john dropped his head and spoke in a rough whisper;

"Oh please no, not tonight."

"John?" Sherlock was confused and slightly wounded. He looked at John blankly, attempting to mask his hurt at John's words. His eyes flew over John, calculating; analysing him, trying to deduce what was going through his thoughts. He knew he would be mad at him, hurt, angry. But he did not expect such an abrupt _rejection_ from John.

Would John want nothing more to do with Sherlock? Could he have moved on? He'd thought that John would be going through the same torture that Sherlock had after years of separation from his friend. Would John make him leave? Or would John himself leave..._no_ that was unthinkable. If Sherlock left, he could return, appeal to John, make him see that Sherlock was back for good and that they should just move on from this...plead with him - _beg_ even. But if John left, walked out of his life and never looked back, then Sherlock would truly have to accept that _that _was the end. If John stayed at Baker Street then that meant that he didn't really want to be left alone, but if John left, well...how could you keep seeking someone who didn't want to be found?

"Just _stop_ it." John clenched his fists and his body stiffened slightly. Sherlock was broken from his reverie by John's sudden outburst, and suddenly brought back to the present. He attempted two steps forward but on seeing the pain haunting John's eyes he stopped and took a step back.

"It's not _fair_!" John spoke in a strangled voice.

"What's not fair?"

John looked away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. "How am I supposed to move on if you won't leave me _alone_?! It's bad enough that my dreams are plagued with you – falling. Just falling. But you never hit the ground, so I think I have a chance, I think I've got time. I try to run to you, catch you, _save_ you – but my legs don't work…and I'm not fast enough. Then I wake up and I remember that you did hit the ground, that you _are _dead. And…and that I'm alone. " He spoke the final words with a determinedly calm resolution.

"John-" Sherlock spoke in a small voice, breaking slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sor-" But john retorted with a voice that was long broken; "Don't. You're apologies are worth nothing to me you're just another hallucination. 'An illusion that my mind has created to numb the pain of loss.' as my therapist so delicately describes it. Really she just thinks I've gone mad. you can tell from the way she looks at me. Rather like the way you are now. Oh, Yes, I've gone back to her now, surprised? I am _that _lonely, that I've resulted to going back to my therapist, just to have someone to talk to."

"But John, you're not alone, that's what I'm trying to-"

"_No_. _Stop it_." His voice was stronger now. "Don't tell me that I'm not alone. You were my _best_ friend. There is no one else! Now you're gone. You left me behind." His face contorted with pain and he returned to sipping from his glass, which was nearly empty now.

Sherlock wished he could say something to comfort John, contradict him even. _Anything _to stop him from looking so broken. But that's what he was. Broken under the hands of Sherlock's poisonous touch. _He_ did this. How could he protect John from harm when it was _he _who embodied this damaging force.

"But it's okay. After all, _'alone is what I have, alone protects me'_ doesn't it?" He glared at the wine glass swirling its last contents round and round the curved surface, eyes following the movement.

"No. John I was wrong. You were right. Friends _do _protect people." Sherlock edged closer, now sensing the pungent smell of alcohol invading his nostrils. "John, I never wanted to leave you. You have to believe me, _please_."

"It's okay. It's all fine." He looked up then, and half smiled at him.

"What?" Sherlock was taken aback. He could not keep up with the racing emotions that John was firing at him.

"I won't be alone much longer." He seemed to be speaking more to himself now as he shifted; reclining his head back and closing his eyes. This drew Sherlock's attention to the coat resting on the arm of the chair, slightly concealing what appeared to be a syringe.

Sherlock felt his whole world tumble down around him as he fell to his knees by the chair and uttered; "Oh God John, what have you done?"

John looked up at him and smiled sadly. "You knew I'd always follow you Sherlock. And now I'm following you into the dark, and I can't be sure where it'll lead me, but so long as I'm that bit closer to you, I'll be happy."

"No, John _please,_ oh God _no_." Sherlock felt all the walls of resistance crumble beneath him, every last shred of pride that prevented him from revealing his emotions shatter.

"Don't be sad, Sherlock. You know It's not really goodbye. Only goodbye for now." John put a hand to Sherlock's cheek, using a thumb to wipe away the single tear that had run from his left eye.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, his chest constricted with a weight of sadness he had never felt before. It was like a physical wound to his heart. The pain encompassed his entire being, consumed him.

John then dropped his hand, as it was getting heavy now; placing it on Sherlock's hand instead, which was resting on the arm of the chair. Sherlock let out a long repressed cry of anguish, grasping John's hand with his own; trying to convey all the feelings he had for the man but wasn't sure how to voice, in this one lone touch. John squeezed back as if he understood, and he too was trying to show it back. Well, Sherlock let himself think that anyway. But he _hoped_ it was true. He really hoped.

Sherlock tightened his grip, and projected everything he had ever felt towards john throughout the years. All the confusion, all the love he did not know how to show, how to _feel,_ until now.

And now it hit him like a brick wall; crushing him, drowning him in the shadow of its sheer height.

He brought his free hand to John's face, running a thumb across his cheek, then gracing the lower line of his lip. John leaned into the touch, exhaling softly.

"I just wish you could have done that for real. I wish we'd had more time. I just…I wish…" He broke off, words slurring now.

Sherlock held tight to John's hand; desperate to keep that slow, steady pulse beating beneath his fingertips. "I know John, I _know._ I do too." He was properly crying now. He had never cried with such heartfelt, raw agony. The tears flowing freely now were almost foreign to him.

"No," John looked pained again, his voice rising slightly in panic. "You're not supposed to be sad."

"Please John. Don't leave me, not now. Not now, when we're so close to our happy ending." He dropped his hand from John's face, running it through his own hair in frustration.

"You can't say that!" John shouted, "No, that's not _fair!_ You know I'm doing this for you, I do it _all _for you. For _us,_ so we can be together again. Don't cry, it's like a knife to my heart. _Please. _It's _hurting me_ Sherlock. Please stop it. _Please."_

That really hit Sherlock hard. It felt like someone had twisted the blade, already lodged in his chest. Did John not realise that his pain physically hurt Sherlock too? It worked both ways. It was like they were connected somehow.

From the beginning they were two lonely souls, walking on the earth alone, lost, looking for something but not knowing what. Stuck. And then they had found each other. By sheer luck, an incredible accident. And they knew straight away that they had found what their hearts had been searching for all along. One another.

But now, Sherlock was about to lose that. A part of himself. His John. The part of him that was kind and loyal. The part of him that showed him how to love. The part that was about to be _ripped_ from him.

He and John were tethered to one another and now the rope that kept them connected was about to be severed. And soon, his John would drift away. He would lose him. And Sherlock would be stuck here, on this earth, lost once again. Searching endlessly for something which could never again be found. Utterly and eternally alone.

John was crying now.

"It's not supposed to be like this." He sobbed softly. "I didn't want it to end like this. You're supposed to be _happy._ I thought you wanted to be with me Sherlock. I thought…" He trailed off again.

In that moment Sherlock knew he had to make a decision.

John was dying. He knew it. It was inevitable. He could not change that – no matter how much it killed him inside.

But there was something he _could_ change. There _was _one last thing he did have control over. He could change whether John died happy, with the hope of meeting him again in death – be it false hope or not, he could repress whatever pain he was feeling; the torture of losing John, and pretend to be happy. Be happy for John. Make John feel happy and safe in his last few moments. Do this last loving act for John. Or, he could tell John the truth, cause him great pain and regret. Tell him that he will only be alone if he goes now. Shout at him for leaving him, abandoning him. Scream until the pain in his throat overcame the pain in his heart.

In that moment, Sherlock Holmes made the most painful and selfless decision of his life.

He put a hand to John's face again. "Yes John," He whispered, with a smile that tore at his heart. "I _am_ happy. I'm crying _because_ I'm so happy. We'll be together soon now, my friend. I promise. I'll be waiting for you."

John stared into Sherlock's eyes intently and then his face broke into a true, wide smile. Tears escaped his eyes as he leaned towards Sherlock and whispered; "I always doubted. I was never really sure that this would work, that it would bring me back to you. But if _you_ say it will. If you _promise…_do you promise, Sherlock? Do you promise I will find you again?"

Sherlock felt like his heart was being wrenched from his chest as he whispered in a broken voice; "I promise John, _I promise_."

"Good." He whispered, closing his eyes and placing his other hand on top Sherlock's, on top of his own. Their hands piled like a fort. Making them stronger, helping each other, supporting each other. Sherlock lifted one of John's hands and brought it to his lips, whispering; "I love you John, I'm so, so sorry."

John' eyelids fluttered and for the last time, his dark blue eyes locked with Sherlock's ghostly pale, blue-green ones. John's; they eyes of a man about to go. Sherlock's those of a man already gone, already dead inside.

His hand squeezed Sherlock's again for the last time as he whispered; "I think I'm going to die now, Sherlock."

Sherlock held back a sob, placing a clenched fist to his mouth to suppress another cry of utter anguish. He took in a shaking breath and attempted a final smile.

"Goodbye John." He said.

"No, Sherlock, it's not goodbye remember? Only goodbye for now." He smiled and exhaled softly.

Sherlock slowly felt John's hand's grasp on his own weaken, and the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse slow and then stop.

He let his eyes run over John's form one last time, taking in and memorizing his soft blonde hair, slightly unkempt and ruffled, his long blonde lashes resting above dark blue eyes that held infinities made up of intricate patterns of blue and gold running towards the centre. His smooth, worn hands that were still warm, his slim torso, thinned with stress and depression.

Sherlock stood and pressed a first, last, undying kiss to John's soft lips. It only lasted a moment, and then it was over. For that is what moments do, they end. But the love that was felt by Sherlock in those few seconds was unending.

"Goodbye John,"

With that he gently closed John's eyes, fingers gracing his cheek, again running along the lower line of his lips which supported the ghost of a smile.

"For now."

Sherlock turned and walked away. Away from 221B Baker Street, away from the only good thing he'd ever had in his life. The only one he'd ever loved. And in that moment the words of his brother echoed in his mind; '_All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage Sherlock.'_

"No." He said, "No Mycroft, you were wrong."

Because he had saved John's heart right? It may have been breaking and damaged, but Sherlock had collected all the pieces and kept it in his hands, protected it - given up the wellbeing of his own heart for John's.

And because all this pain, all the anguish he was feeling now, the loss – it was all worth it. For John. Just knowing John, having him as a friend, loving him. Sherlock would take a lifetime of suffering and sadness just to have one day with John.

Out of seven billion people, he and John had found each other, he had found what he had been looking for – other people, they roam about the earth all their lives without finding it – but _he_ _did_. Love and loss were like two conjoined entities - you could not have one without the other. Nor could they exist without the other, in order to truly appreciate love you must someday lose it. And to really feel loss you must have loved. But that did not mean that you were better off without either.

Sherlock believed that the pain of loss that he felt over John was a reflection of the love he had felt for the man. Of how truly magnificent he was. How much he was adored. And John had been loved so much, he deserved to be mourned, he deserved somebody to feel the absence of him every day, to live with his memory until he too was gone.

Above Sherlock had found his other half. His soul mate. His _best friend. _His almost lover…

And _that _was worth more than anything.


End file.
